by Rory Black
Spike and Caleb trailed the elder. Their expressions altered when they saw what Delmer was staring at.
‘Is that blood?’ Spike stammered.
Delmer nodded. ‘Sure looks like it.’
‘Oh hell,’ Caleb cursed and shook his head in utter disbelief and sorrow.
Delmer stared hard at the dried blood that stained the leather saddle. The streaks of dried gore ran down the fender and covered the stirrup. Delmer blew out a long line of smoke at the horrific scene and then looked at both his brothers.
‘I got me a feeling it’s belonging to young Mason,’ he rasped before filling his lungs with the grey cigar smoke again.
Caleb and Spike moved quickly to the side of their sibling and tried to think of another reason for the saddle being stained with so much dried blood. No matter how hard they strained their brains, the only answer that made any sense to them was that Delmer was right. It was Mason’s blood.
‘You figure he’s bin shot, Delmer?’ Spike stammered.
The older of the Holt brothers chewed on his smouldering cigar and rested a hand on the saddle. His eyes darted at his two dust-caked siblings.
‘Nope, I reckon he’s dead,’ Delmer snorted.
Caleb shook his head in disbelief. ‘Mason can’t be dead, Delmer. He’s way too damn young to be dead.’
‘I wish you were right, Caleb,’ Delmer grunted. ‘But there ain’t a critter crawling that’s too young to die.’
Spike rested his hands on his holstered gun grips as he considered the notion. He glanced at both of his brothers in turn. Although in his guts he knew that Delmer was more than likely right. Fury swelled up inside him as he kicked the ground.
‘Mason might have only bin wounded, Delmer,’ he suggested.
‘If Mason was only wounded why’d he ride up to the sheriff’s office and trail blood in there?’ Delmer reasoned as he inhaled deeply on his cigar and then pointed. ‘If he was alive, he’d have ridden to the doctor’s down the street.’
Caleb and Spike could both see the wooden shingle hanging a few doors from where they were standing. They returned their eyes to their brother and knew he was right.
‘Where in tarnation is he?’ Spike asked angrily. ‘And how did he get himself killed?’
Delmer turned away from the gelding and stared at the townsfolk that were gathered all around them and then drew one of his six-guns. He waved the barrel of his .45 at the crowd and then cocked its hammer. The crowd went wide-eyed and deafeningly silent.
Delmer walked toward a group of at least a dozen men and women. He waved his deadly six-gun at them. His icy stare burned through the smoke of the cigar between his gritted teeth.
‘Where’s the youngster that belongs to that buckskin?’ he shouted ominously at them. ‘Heed this. I ain’t in no mood to be joshed with. Answer me or I’ll surely kill you.’
There was no doubting that Delmer Holt was serious about his threat. The crowd could see the grief in his dark eyes as he closed in on them.
After what seemed like an eternity an old lady raised her shaking hand and pointed to the far end of town. She cleared her throat and then ventured.
‘They took him to the funeral parlour, mister,’ she croaked nervously. ‘The poor boy was shot to ribbons.’
A cold chill raced through all three of the brothers.
Delmer walked nearer the old woman. He nodded at her.
‘How’d it happen?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘None of us know how or where it happened, sonny. All we know is that a tall, skinny varmint with long black hair brung that poor dead boy into town. He dragged the body into Sheriff Scott’s office and then lit out.’
Delmer frowned and pulled the cigar from his mouth. There was something about the description of the man who had delivered Mason to the sheriff that seemed familiar.
‘Did you happen to hear what this critter’s name was?’ he asked. He tapped the ash from the cigar before returning it to his mouth.
The old woman was thoughtful.
‘I didn’t hear his name but I’ve just recalled something about the ugly varmint. Something mighty strange.’
‘What you remembered?’ Spike asked.
‘That galoot rode out of here alongside a young gal who was driving a stagecoach,’ the old woman told the three outlaws. ‘She was tiny but shameless. That gal didn’t have nearly enough clothing to cover herself.’
Caleb walked to the side of Delmer.
‘I seem to have heard of an ugly bounty hunter with long black hair, Delmer,’ he said fearfully.
‘Me too,’ Spike nodded.
The brutal confirmation that their youngest sibling was indeed dead, but that he had also been riddled with bullets suddenly brought the true horror into focus for the hardened rustler. For years he had not given a second thought to any of their mortalities, but now the glaring truth cut into him like a sabre.
‘A darn ugly bounty hunter with long black hair,’ he repeated as he attempted to collect his thoughts.
‘I never seen anyone look like him, mister,’ the old lady piped up before turning away from the Holt brothers. ‘He was like a monster. His face all covered in scars.’
Delmer released the hammer on his gun and holstered it as he continued to dwell on the horrific words. He swung on his heels and started down toward the undertakers.
‘C’mon, boys,’ he growled. He started walking with his brothers flanking his every step. ‘I’ve heard all about a critter that fits that description but I never paid it no heed. I never believed that anyone like that could actually exist.’
‘You’ve heard of somebody that actually fits that old lady’s description, Delmer?’ Spike shook his head. ‘Folks like that just make things up.’
Delmer glanced at his brother. ‘She might be old but she told us what she saw, Spike. Why would she invent the scars and long hair?’
The outlaws were silent as they continued through the shimmering haze to where they had been told their younger sibling had been taken. The three Holt brothers slowed their pace as they neared the imposing structure decorated in a similar fashion to all places that dealt with death.
As they neared the funeral parlour, Delmer’s progress was halted by Caleb’s intervention as he stepped ahead of his elder and waved his hands at the brooding outlaw.
Both men glared into one another’s eyes.
‘Get out of my way, Caleb,’ Delmer ordered.
Caleb pressed his hand against Delmer’s shirt. ‘I’ve heard them tall tales just like you have, Delmer. I never thought they could be true. Are you telling me that there is such a critter and it was him that cut down Mason?’
Delmer gave a slow silent nod.
Both Spike and Caleb looked at each other as they felt an icy chill sweep over them. Caleb moved closer to Delmer and leaned close.
‘Who do you figure that ugly hombre was, Delmer?’ Caleb asked fearfully. ‘What they call him?’
Delmer brushed Caleb aside and stepped up on to the boardwalk. He grabbed the door handle and then looked back into Caleb and Spike’s faces.
‘If I’m right, it can only be one bastard,’ he hissed and entered the gloomy undertakers. A sudden flash caught the brothers by surprise. They stopped and raised their hands to their eyes.
As their eyes recovered from the blinding light, they saw a photographer emerge from under a black cloth with a sickening smile on his face.
Delmer swallowed hard as his eyes focused in horror at what the photographer had been taking a picture of. They had seen it before, but this time it was personal.
A crude coffin, which looked as though it had been hastily put together from spare lumber, was propped up against a wall with young Mason’s body inside it. His lifeless eyes had been forced open with undertaker’s wax for the photograph.
Mason had been stripped to the waist to display the bullet holes in his torso. It was not something commonplace in the West and the undertaker knew that he and the photographer would ma
ke a lot of money.
Delmer held his distraught siblings at bay as he stared at the horrific sight. Then his eyes drifted to the undertaker who stood beside the coffin.
The smile evaporated from the face of the undertaker as he saw the fury burning in Delmer’s eyes. The small man cleared his throat as his partner folded the tripod and carried the heavy camera out into the blazing sun.
‘What you done to my brother?’ Delmer asked as his shaking hand pointed at the coffin and its pitiful contents. ‘He ain’t no prize hog to take pictures of.’
Fred Foley suddenly realized that these were no simple passers-by looking to order pictures of the outlaw. They were kinfolk of the deceased.
‘Brother?’ Foley croaked.
Delmer nodded. ‘Yep, my kid brother.’
The undertaker raised his hands and held them before him as if in silent prayer. He tilted his head and desperately tried to calm the furious outlaws down.
‘The sheriff gave me permission to record the fact that your brother was killed, gentlemen,’ Foley said. ‘You might say it’s historical evidence.’
‘Where is this sheriff of yours, amigo?’ Delmer snorted as he stared blankly into the face of Foley and clenched his fists angrily. ‘Where is he?’
Foley could feel the tension rising within the confines of his funeral parlour. He quickly lifted the wooden lid and placed it over the coffin.
‘Sheriff Baker is across the street in the café,’ he replied before turning to face them. ‘It was his idea. He said he needed proof of your brother’s sad demise.’
Delmer turned and moved to the window. He pulled one of the black drapes aside and stared across the street at the small café.
‘Why’d he need proof?’ he drawled.
‘To recoup the bounty money he paid to the hombre that brought poor Mason here into town,’ Foley responded. ‘You see, Diablo Creek ain’t got a proper bank and he had to pay the reward money out of town funds.’
Delmer Holt inhaled deeply.
‘C’mon, boys. Let’s go have a confab with the sheriff.’
‘What about this bastard, Delmer?’ Spike pointed at the shaking undertaker. ‘Are we gonna leave him here?’
‘He won’t talk,’ Delmer said as he moved back toward the demure Foley. ‘Will you?’
Foley shook from head to toe as Delmer bore down on him like a riled grizzly bear. ‘I’ll not say a word. I swear.’
Suddenly Delmer brought a clenched fist up. His knuckles connected with Foley’s jaw. The sound of bone on bone filled the small parlour. The undertaker collapsed like a sack of potatoes at the rustler’s feet.
Delmer stared down at the unconscious man and then turned on his boot leather and brushed passed his brothers. The outlaw did not slow his pace until he reached the hitching pole outside the funeral parlour.
Spike and Caleb rushed out into the sunshine as Delmer checked his guns. His unblinking eyes did not deviate from the café.
‘What we gonna do, Delmer?’ Caleb asked.
‘We’re gonna have us a talk with that star-packer, boys,’ Delmer answered as he stepped down and started walking across the sun-baked sand.
‘What about?’ Spike questioned as he tried to keep up with his elder.
‘I’m gonna find out exactly who killed Mason and the sheriff will then tell us which way him and that under-dressed filly went.’ He snorted as he rested a hand on one of his gun grips.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sheriff Jeb Russell had no notion of what was happening in his sleepy little town as he quietly finished his morning breakfast. Nothing had happened in Diablo Creek since the infamous Iron Eyes had ridden in with the bullet-ridden body of Mason Holt draped over the saddle of his buckskin. The seasoned lawman had not expected the arrival of Holt’s kinfolk to alter things. For one of the few times in his long uneventful career, Russell was wrong.
Utterly unaware of the danger that had arrived in his normally peaceful settlement, he had been seated with his back to the café window. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then pushed his empty plate away as he finished his coffee.
Russell pulled a few coins from his vest pocket as he had done countless times before and placed them beside his empty cup.
He had only just risen to his feet when the Holt boys entered the café. The door hit the wall hard as Delmer led his brothers into the confines of the eatery. As the startled sheriff turned to stare at the hostile faces, he suddenly felt his heart quicken.
‘That’s him, boys,’ Delmer snarled as he saw the tin star pinned to Russell’s shirtfront before lunging at the lawman.
The elderly lawman barely had time to focus when his bearded chin felt the impact of Delmer’s fist. As the waitress screamed, the sheriff flew over the table and then crashed in a heap upon the floor.
Delmer tossed chairs aside and lunged at the dazed sheriff on the floor. Before Russell had time to gather his wits, Delmer dragged him up and then held him against the wall. He repeatedly used his superior strength to beat the lawman against the unyielding wall boards.
‘So you’re the star-packer who dished out the blood money for our dead brother, are you?’ he growled. ‘Now it’s your turn. But we don’t want money. We want vengeance. Savvy?’
The sheriff could not reply. He could neither hear nor understand what his attacker was screaming into his face. The constant pounding of his skull against the wall was like the pounding of Apache war drums.
Delmer swung the lawman around as though he were nothing but a rag doll. He held Russell upright and then threw a sickening blow to the older man’s belly. No mule had ever kicked harder. The sheriff fell forward as the outlaw sent a vicious uppercut to his chin.
Russell was knocked off his feet. He flew backwards and crashed through the window. A million fragments of splintered glass cascaded over the lawman as he hit the boardwalk and then cartwheeled into the sandy street.
As his brothers raced out through the open doorway, Delmer jumped through the large gap where the window had resided until a few moments earlier.
The rustler stared at the lawman’s bleeding face and then levelled a boot into the lawman’s ribs. Russell arched in agony as Delmer grabbed him by the bandanna and hoisted him off the sand.
‘Are you starting to savvy that me and the boys are mighty upset by you paying that back-shooter, Sheriff?’ Delmer shouted at the swollen face dangling by his bandanna from the rustler’s grip. ‘Are you?’
Russell was choking from the blood that filled his throat as Delmer savagely threw him at the shattered café façade. The sheriff hit the wall hard and then fell on to the broken window frame. Jagged pieces of glass and wood tore into Russell as he fell face-first on to the debris.
The dazed lawman pressed his hands against the boardwalk and pushed himself up. The pain of the skin-tearing glass that cut into his flesh seemed to wrestle the ancient lawman out of his bewilderment.
Russell stared through his swollen eyes at the outlaws who surrounded him. He slowly began to realize who these men were and why they were so intent on his destruction.
‘You’re the Holt brothers,’ he gasped before rising on to his knees. ‘I’ve seen your likenesses on Wanted posters.’
Caleb and Spike nodded in unison as Delmer moved closer to the bleeding victim of his venomous fury. ‘So finally the penny’s dropped, huh? Now you better get ready to die.’
‘We gonna kill him?’ Spike grinned eagerly.
‘Let me gut the bastard, Delmer,’ Caleb ventured, like a vulture too eager to wait for death to take its natural course, as he pulled a long stiletto from his waistband.
Delmer ignored his siblings and grabbed hold of Russell’s shirt collar. He dragged the lawman off his knees and stared into the bloody features.
‘Now listen up, Sheriff,’ he drawled in a threatening tone as his grip tightened. ‘We wanna know the name of that varmint who killed and brung Mason here. We also wanna know which way him and his lady friend went after you paid the
m their blood money. Savvy?’
Sheriff Russell gave a slight nod of his head.
‘I savvy,’ he groaned.
‘Are you gonna talk?’ Delmer squeezed.
For some reason that even the lawman could not fully understand he spat into Holt’s face. Bloody spittle ran down Delmer’s rugged features and dripped on to his shirtfront. The notorious rustler could no long control his anger and gave out a horrendous scream a fraction of a heartbeat before he pushed Russell backwards with all his might.
The sheriff hit the porch upright hard. His spine connected with the edge of the wooden pole and stopped Russell in his tracks.
Delmer bounded up to the winded lawman, clenched a fist and hit Russell in the belly again. The noise that escaped from the older man’s twisted lips echoed around the street as the waitress inside the café screamed in horror.
Delmer pointed at Caleb.
‘Kill that bitch, Caleb,’ he snarled as his pressed a hand against the breathless lawman’s chest and kept him pinned against the upright. ‘She’s giving me a headache.’
Caleb touched the brim of his Stetson and then ran back into the café. Within seconds the screaming stopped. A smile etched the face of Delmer as Caleb walked back out of the café and into the blazing sunshine.
‘That was fast,’ Delmer noted.
‘She had no place to run,’ Caleb raised his trusty knife and then wiped the crimson blood off its honed blade on his sleeve. ‘Let me show you how I done it. The sheriff is skinnier than she was but a gutting is a gutting.’
‘Maybe in a while I’ll let you loose on this critter, Caleb,’ Delmer hissed like a sidewinder as he stared at the defiant lawman. ‘If he keeps being ornery, that is.’
Russell felt Holt’s fingers press into his shirt until they had a grip on his flesh. He winced and then was thrown away from the small café. His hip caught the edge of the hitching pole and sent him spiralling into the side of a water trough.
The veteran lawman was sprawled beside the wooden trough. Blood ran freely from his mouth as he stared into the sand between his legs. The spurs of his attackers filled his ears as they once again surrounded him.
